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The boots stop right outside the loading dock.
I'm pressed against the brick wall next to the busted stage door, one hand over my mouth like that'll somehow muffle my heartbeat. Rowan's three feet to my left, perfectly still, head tilted like she's counting footsteps. Blood's still dripping from the gash on her side, but she's not even breathing hard.
She's waiting.
I can feel it. She's waiting for me to tell her what to do.
"Split up," someone says outside. Male voice, calm. "She can't have gone far. Not in that condition."
"Copy. Thermal's picking up two signatures, second floor."
My stomach drops. Rowan's eyes flick to me. Silver. Too bright in the dark. There's no panic in them. Just that same flat, patient look she had in the elevator when she put the blade to her own throat.
She's waiting for an order.
I shake my head. Mouth the words: *We hide.*
Her jaw tightens. She doesn't move.
Footsteps again. Closer. The loading dock door rattles. Someone's testing the lock.
"Rowan," I whisper. It comes out too loud. Her eyes snap to mine. "We go up. The catwalk. Now."
She moves before I finish the sentence.
I don't know how she does it. One second she's against the wall, the next she's halfway up the service ladder, silent as smoke. I follow, hands shaking, boots scraping metal because I'm not a piece of corporate war tech, I'm a lighting tech who hasn't done cardio since high school.
The ladder ends at the catwalk over the stage. It's a mess of scaffolding and old rigging I've been meaning to fix for six months. Rowan's already crouched at the far end, scanning the space below. I crawl up beside her and try not to look down.
The loading dock door slams open.
Two of them. Both in tactical gear, black and featureless. One's got a tablet, the other's got something that looks like a rifle but glows at the edges. They move through the backstage area like they own it, helmets turning in sync.
"Upper level," the one with the tablet says. "She's up there."
Rowan shifts. Her hand goes to her side, and when she pulls it back there's a blade in her palm. I didn't see her draw it. I didn't even see where it came from. It's the same one from the elevator. Thin, surgical, glowing faint blue along the edge.
She's looking at me.
Waiting.
"No," I breathe.
Her head tilts. Just a fraction. There's no confusion on her face, but there's something. A pause. Like she's translating.
"Nia." My name sounds wrong in her mouth. Too precise. Too careful. "Give the order."
"I'm not—" I stop. Swallow. "I'm not ordering you to kill anyone."
"They will retrieve me." She says it like a fact. Flat. "You will be collateral."
The soldiers are at the base of the ladder now.
"I don't care," I hiss. "Find another way."
"There is no other way."
"Then we run."
She stares at me. For one long, horrible second I think she's going to do it anyway. Just drop down there and turn those two into a problem I'll have nightmares about for the rest of my life. But then her fingers tighten on the blade and she looks away.
"Where."
It's not a question. It's a demand.
I don't have an answer. The theater's a dead end. Four walls, two exits, and both of them are downstairs. The only thing up here is dust, broken lights, and—
The skylight.
It's been painted over since before I moved in. The owner said it leaked, said it was cheaper to seal it than fix it. But I've seen the frame. Old iron hinges. The kind that open.
"There." I point.
Rowan follows my finger. The skylight's fifteen feet above us, set into the angled roof. No ladder. No catwalk. Just a straight climb up the proscenium arch and a prayer that the bolts hold.
She looks back at me. There's something new in her expression now. Not doubt. But close.
"You want me to climb."
"I want both of us to climb."
The soldiers are on the ladder. I can hear the metal creaking under their weight.
Rowan moves.
She doesn't ask again. Just springs from the catwalk to the nearest beam, pulls herself up like gravity's optional. I'm slower. A lot slower. My hands are sweating and the old bolts groan every time I shift my weight. Halfway up I make the mistake of looking down and see one of the soldiers step onto the catwalk, rifle raised.
"Contact," he says into his comm. "North side, upper rigging."
Rowan's at the skylight. Her blade's out again, this time prying at the frame. The hinges scream. Rust and paint flake down onto my head.
"Rowan—"
"Climb."
I climb. My foot slips once and I catch myself on a beam that wasn't meant to hold a person. It shifts. Bolts pop. The whole section lurches and I'm falling, or I'm about to be, and then there's a hand locked around my wrist.
Rowan.
She's hanging off the skylight frame with one hand, holding me with the other. Her grip's hard enough to bruise.
"Up," she says.
I don't have time to argue. She hauls me up like I weigh nothing. I grab the frame, pull myself through, and then we're on the roof and the night air hits my face and I can't breathe but I'm breathing anyway, gasping, alive.
Rowan pulls the skylight shut behind us. Slams it. I hear shouting below, muffled.
"They'll follow," she says.
"Let them." I'm on my hands and knees, sucking air. "Let them try."
She doesn't answer.
I look up. She's standing at the edge of the roof, perfectly still again. The city spreads out behind her, all broken neon and midnight gray. The wind pulls at her hair. She's still bleeding. The glow from her blade makes her look like a ghost.
I push myself up. My legs are shaking. My wrist hurts where she grabbed me.
That's when I see it.
Silver lines, thin as spider silk, crawling over my skin. They start at the pulse point and spread, branching, geometric. They don't hurt. But they're there. Real. Growing.
Rowan sees me staring. Turns.
Her face goes white.
"What," I say. My voice cracks. "What is this."
She crosses the space between us in two steps. Grabs my wrist. Her fingers are freezing. She's staring at the marks like I just pulled a gun on her.
"No," she whispers.
I try to pull away. She doesn't let go.
"Rowan. What—"
"We bonded." She's not looking at me. She's looking at the marks. At my wrist. At the place where her hand touched mine. "We shouldn't have bonded. It's not—" She stops. Swallows. "It's not supposed to happen like this."
"What the hell does that mean?"
She finally meets my eyes. There's something in her expression I haven't seen before. Not fear. But close enough.
"It means you're my key now," she says. "And I can't leave."